As you read this, one week ago you were having your heart torn out. Not in the awesome FINISH HIM fatality way. But in a surgery-without-anesthesia way. Each layer of you cut and dissected, ribs being cracked in a slow methodical fashion until they got to the old heart parts. They probably looked at it, turned their head like a damn veloceraptor, laughing slowly yet maniacally and thought “This will look lovely on my mantle.” And one by one, they cut the great vessels. Maybe the veins first so that your terror would continue for ever more moments. There was still some hope that you could have this macabre surgery stopped, that the team from House could be magically transformed (as they always are) into cardiac surgeons, that they put you back together and House looks at you and says “You’re pathetic” and it would be OK. And then they run a goddamn left sweep and simultaneously sever your aorta and it’s poof, game over.
I finished watching New Girl. For the second time. That’s right, I watched the entire thing twice. And you know what? I don’t care what you think. I have run out of f-cks to give (also, I will also edit this blog strategically because I don’t know who’s reading over your shoulder. They might take my green card if they read some of the sh-t I write here. HAHAHA JUST KIDDING I’M STRAIGHT UP ‘MERICAN B-TCHES GREATEST COUNTRY EVER MADE USAUSAUSA). And you know what else I did today. I just stared at an ‘merican flag, just pondering all the awesome sh-t that it’s brought us. Cause you can’t do that enough boys and girls. Sometimes you just gotta stare at a flag and have a good cry because ‘merica you are one beautiful, wonderful b-tch.
But let’s get real for a second people. Why are we still sad over this? It happened a week ago. No one died (we think, seriously where is Bobby Hebert and half the cast of Swamp People. Other digression, really History Channel? Cajun Pawn Stars? Are you seriously going to slap “Cajun” onto everything? How about “Cajun World War II in Color?” or “Cajun Modern Marvels.” Fact: Cajun Modern Marvels would be an amazing show roughly ten minutes long about pieros and how somehow this is related to Katrina OH GOD SAINTS FOOTAGE ABOUT THE REDEMPTION OF NEW ORLEANS AND SUPERBOWLS AHHHHHHHHH)
I think we’re sad because of the way that it went down. It was basically the reverse of every awesome story ever. Darth Vader slices the sh-t out of Luke. Voldemort kills Harry but like for real this time. Harry doesn’t meet Sally but ends up doing an uncrazy thing such as taking his son’s phone away instead of letting his son get on a plane and now Harry has to chase his ass cross country to the Empire State Building. Thanks for being a negligent parent Tom Hanks, here's your reward: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Meg_Ryan_Met_Opera_2010_Shankbone.jpg).
Fact: We are the perfect finace/boyfriend in every romantic comedy that gets left at the alter. Just as the National Championship/Super Bowl is walking down the aisle, looking equal parts radiant and ironic in her white dress (ironic because of how slutty she probably was, because honestly, how do you get to the alter and still have some other bro pining for you if you weren’t doing some extracurricular OTPHJs (Over the Pants HJ for the uninitiated, a popular tactic of exotic dancers everywhere). AND THEN BOOM, here comes the bro, likely looking really disheveled, probably on a horse, possibly smelling of B.O. because he’s a workin’ man from the wrong side of the tracks, and confesses his love. And the audience eats this up BECAUSE THIS IS HOW LIFE IS. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LEAD PEOPLE ON AND HAVE ONE OF THEM GO F-CKING CRAZY TRYING TO LOCK YOUR SUPER-HOTT-RIGHT-NOW-BUT-SERIOUSLY-AFTER-ONE-KID-WOMPWOOOOMP ASS DOWN. And then everyone claps and awws and they probably look at their significant other and think “I would totally leave your ass if someone rode in on a horse to break up our wedding.” But lost in it all is perfection, standing at the alter. They’re usually a gentleman about it, extend a hand, and say, “Good game you’ve taken the one thing I loved with your sh-tty stunt. But seriously, if I was going to marry that kind of two-faced sh-t it’s probably for the best. No, I’m not bitter, but heads up homewrecker, you better put an ankle bracelet on her if you forget to take out the trash because she is going hunting. Hunting for D. OK, good talk. Bridesmaids, who wants to make some mistakes?” But heres the sad part: There’s no bridesmaids for us. All there is is standing cold and alone wondering what might have been.
God DAMN that is depressing.
pirogue
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